Firestarter
by wtfel
Summary: Rommath didn't deserve this. Any of this. Disclaimer: Rommath's inevitable wet dream not included with purchase. (One-shot, for the weekly prompt "Disgusting.") (Rated T for mentions of sex made by an irritated grand magister.)


Grand Magister Rommath had never missed a morning meeting.

A soldier can't keep his sword arm strong without some sparring, or so said Halduron Brightwing ( _often_ ).

Well, Rommath had held a sword exactly _once_ , and that sword was a runeblade belonging to the Blood Knight Matriarch. (He'd handed it back in a hurry the moment she was done lacing her boots—Quel'Delar _hissed_ when it was held by another, that wretched blade.) But even if he'd never make much of a soldier, he liked to think his tongue was a weapon of sorts, one that needed as much sharpening as any sword.

And Silvermoon's weekly state of the regency meetings were his sparring sessions.

Especially when Brightwing started trying to relate everything in terms of military strategy. Or alcoholism. But more often than not, the two went together like a sword in a scabbard, or a bow and arrow, or...target practice and drinking games, or something.

Whatever.

He'd started his day in a decent mood. Woke up on the right side of the bed—just a few inches off-center with his pillow resting at a perfect forty-five degree angle beneath him—and sat up with a nice long stretch and scowl. (For non-Rommaths, this translated to a cheerful smile.)

During his visit to the realm of dreaming, he'd devised a flawless strategy to take down the ranger-general at today's meeting—a three-tiered plan, founded on a few well-timed insults he'd hand-selected based around the attributes Brightwing held in highest regard:

I. His alcohol tolerance.

II. His looks.

III. His sex appeal.

 _Airtight_.

 _These_ were the three pillars upon which Halduron Brightwing had built his sense of self, his very being. And when these three pillars crumbled, so too would Halduron Brightwing.

(But he was packing a low blow regarding Brightwing's insistence on testing his martial prowess on a certain visually-impaired regent lord, just in case. Never hurt to be prepared.)

He'd followed up with a particularly satisfactory cup of breakfast tea, paired with a mildly intriguing article regarding the positive impact of potted plants on the emotionally-void—seemed right up his alley—dressed his best in his usual high-collared robes, and even made a trip to The Bazaar to purchase some arcanically-enhanced fertilizer for his ferns with time to spare.

Which he planned to spend doting on the orchid he'd bought on impulse so the shopkeeper would stop trying to speak to him. Or maybe he'd organize his wardrobe—he had yet to sort through his closet this month, busy as he was with diplomatic paperwork and keeping an eye on Aethas Sunreaver. Or he could spend the next couple hours with his nose in a new book. The options were endless, really.

(The prospect of leisure time was largely foreign to the grand magister.)

(And so it would remain.)

He was on his half-merry way to his office with a freshly-loaned library book in one arm and his orchid in the other when he heard it, about six steps from the door.

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._

Rommath set his jaw, already ready with a scowl and a couple curt words for whoever was digging around his desk drawers before he reached for the doorknob.

He kept them locked for a reason, after all, and that reason was no one's business but his own, so whenever was on the other side of that door—Astalor, probably—would be in for quite a surprise when he caught them in the act—

Except that he ended up on the wrong end of the surprise when his expectations were turned a bit more euphemistic than he might've liked.

His initial reaction was something along the lines of, "Why are Aethas Sunreaver and Astalor Bloodsworn _both_ in my office simultaneously?" Because he had made it explicitly clear on multiple occasions that they were only to approach him _separately_ , so as to prevent his early demise due to an agitation-induced heart failure.

His second reaction, the more sound of the two, was closer to a dry heave, which was coincidentally the only thing that kept him from blurting out, "Why are Aethas Sunreaver and Astalor Bloodsworn _both_ in my office simultaneously?"

If he could take comfort in anything, it was that he was partially correct, at the least.

No one was digging through his drawers, but there were definitely several demonstrations of digging to be seen, and what he'd thought to be thumping was only off by one letter.

And Rommath was simply standing there, paralyzed as he racked his brain for a word—or any arrangement—of such that could possibly describe what he was feeling in that precise moment.

He failed.

But he had this sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't have mattered anyhow.

What would he have done with the words? After all, it was his understanding that one needed an ample supply of air and a pair of operable lungs to produce verbal speech.

Right then, the grand magister possessed neither.

So his saucer-shaped eyes and the brows he'd lost somewhere beyond his hairline would just have to speak on his behalf.

Unfortunately for Rommath, given the nature of their act, neither Aethas nor Astalor was really in a position to notice. Now, it was traditionally the job of the ones being walked in on to bear the brunt of the humiliation. But unfortunately for Rommath, once again, the "ones" in question _were_ Aethas and Astalor, who together made up a solid seventy percent of Silvermoon's self-obsession. In retrospect, Rommath shouldn't have been surprised—they had enough ego between the both of them to power that Sha in the Blood Knights' basement for the rest of the foreseeable future—but at the moment, he was just sort of appalled that they'd still failed to see him standing there with his orchid.

Nope, between the three of them, no one even batted an eye.

(Now, this could've been due to a number of factors, listed here in order of importance: Sunreaver's stare was growing increasingly half-lidded and hazy, Astalor's eyes had rolled back so far he must've had a scenic view of his skull, and Rommath, who was well beyond shutting his eyes by this point, had already made a good fifteen efforts to forcefully maim himself, all of which were rendered unsuccessful by the potted plant cradled in his arms.)

As a matter of fact, no one even spoke a word—now that was the surprising part—so the only ambience was the rhythmic clap of Aethas pounding Astalor minus five letters and the ever-so-soft _creakcreakcreak_ of Rommath's desk in pathetic protest. Both of which provided the perfect countermelody to the breathy moan that fell from a pair of parted lips that the grand magister did not care to identify.

And this marked the point at which he could stand no more. (Judging by Astalor's expression, the grand magister was not alone in this.)

"I had paperwork on there," he blurted. It was the only thing he could think to say. "You'd better have moved it."

There was no startled cry or struggle to untangle themselves as they scurried to collect their belongings and vacate the premises. They just ground to a slow halt in a sense far too literal for Rommath's preference, punctuated by a jumble of swears and nervous laughter.

"Didn't see any paperwork," said Sunreaver.

Rommath could see it just fine, though—got a pretty crystalline view as Astalor Bloodsworn sat upright, a couple creased documents sweat-stuck to his skin. The parchment peeled away when Bloodsworn offered a shrug—his signature apology—leaving a tracery of Rommath's handwriting tattooed to his right shoulderblade.

"That's all right," said the grand magister, in a voice that said quite the opposite. "I'll rewrite it after I'm finished sanitizing my desk. You're dismissed, both of you."

"Told you you weren't going fast enough," was all Astalor had to say. At least he had the decency to cover himself as he hopped off the desk. "Pay up."

Aethas, on the other hand, made no such effort, simply sauntered across the study to retrieve his robes, tossed haphazardly over the arm of Rommath's reading chair. Didn't even say a word, because that smirk of his said enough—well, the smile and his still-slick dick waving about with each step—just fished a few gold pieces out of his pocket and pressed them into Astalor's palm as he passed on his way out.

Still as naked as the day he'd been born.

Rommath tried not to think about the fact this this meant Astalor must've been equally naked when he'd _entered_ the office, scanning the room for somewhere safe to set his stare, but it kept settling on Aethas' freckled firestarter—despite his best efforts—and to make matters worse, Aethas wasn't making any attempts to disguise his apparent intrigue.

But the moment Sunreaver parted his lips to speak—just a flicker of movement in Rommath's periphery—he was silenced with a scowl.

"Not a word, firecrotch," said the grand magister. "Just keep walking. I've got work to do."

* * *

And that was how he missed his first morning meeting.

The next couple hours were spent cleaning out his desk, finding dozens of trinkets he'd thought lost—in addition to the vial of lubricant Sunreaver had left behind, which Rommath was claiming—and then breaking his desk into kindling.

He arranged the pieces at the center of his study, in the shape of a pyre, and burned them in the name of his emotions, or lack thereof—a funeral for the last vestiges of love for life he'd been clinging to since Quel'Danas.

So that was how Halduron Brightwing had found him, gazing into the glowing embers of an open flame with eyes so dead they'd ought to burn next.

"Afternoon, Rommath," he said as he strolled in. "Thought I smelled smoke."

The grand magister's stare was so cold the fire seemed to shudder out of sheer fear.

"Just thought I'd stop by, since you missed the meeting," he told the grand magister. "I know how highly you think of our banter. You know, a soldier can't keep his sword arm strong without some sparring."

Rommath really did not have the mental fortitude for this right now.

"Anyway, was just a little worried that you didn't show," Halduron said with a shrug. "Thought maybe something was wrong. But obviously my worry was misplaced."

" _Obviously_." The word sounded as though it'd slipped through the dull, dead teeth of a skeleton. Rommath had been to Northrend; he would know. "You concern is appreciated."

"So…" he said, brows pulled down low in a frown. "Whatcha burning this time?"

Rommath snapped a plank that had once been his top-left drawer in two, feeding it to the fire in halves. "Just my desk."

"Oh." Halduron's hands settled on his hips, as if to emphasize his frown. "Dare I ask why?"

"Sunreaver."

"Oh." His confusion was about as scantily-clad as the dates he brought to banquets. "He spill something on it?"

"Think I caught them before they did any spilling."

"Caught them…?"

"Aethas and Astalor," Rommath said stiffly, "in a rather...compromising position…"

Brightwing scratched at his brow, perplexed. "Well, that's no reason to set the Spire on fire, is it?"

Somewhere beneath the fel glow, flames flickered in Rommath's eyes, a reflection of the blaze before him, or perhaps the burning rage between his ribs, subdued by that high-collared robe. "You don't think so?"

"Nah," said Brightwing. "Not like they got very far. Less than most, anyway."

Rommath shifted the orchid to his hip as he turned to face the ranger-general, flames climbing higher with a clench of his fist. "Most?"

"Sure," Halduron said, inexplicably nonchalant. "Heard Astalor and the new apprentice went four rounds on that very desk when you were in Fairbreeze Village last Friday. Didn't even stop when she fell off." He shook his head, eyes wide with reverence. "Azeroth could use more heroes like those two."

"I see," Rommath mused. "Is this a common occurrence?"

Brightwing cocked a brow at him. "You didn't know?" he asked. "Light, everyone thought you knew! I mean, we just assumed you'd say something if you disapproved—you do that, you know—or at least, I dunno, leave a passive aggressive coaster saying, like, 'Fuck here and I'll fuck you up," or some—"

"What do you mean _everyone_?"

"Um...everyone?" The ranger-general's shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. "It's become something like an initiation for incoming magi."

Explained what Sunreaver had been doing between Astalor Bloodsworn's— _stop_.

"Odd tradition, if you ask me, but it's good to see them expressing themselves," Brightwing said with that grin of his, the one that lived up to the first half of his surname.

But Rommath didn't have a surname, and he wasn't smiling. "Fucking on my desk passes as expression?"

"Well, anywhere in the office—the desk is just most convenient, but the braver souls will ask you to—" The ranger-general rocked back on his heels, putting some distance between himself and the heat. "A-At least, that's what I've heard, you know. Lots of rumors."

"I see." Rommath returned his stare to the flames. "And have you, perchance, participated in this...initiation ritual, Halduron Brightwing?"

He scoffed. "Do I look like a mage to you?"

"Have you initiated any?" Rommath asked. "On my desk, or elsewhere?"

Halduron's gaze flitted toward the door, then back to Rommath—Brightwing was well-known for his light feet, but prior experience had proven on many occasions that he couldn't outrun short-range teleportation.

"Really shouldn't be doing this inside," he said, waving at the fire like he hoped to put it out.

"The area is clear of debris and I've ensured the room is properly ventilated," the grand magister told him. "Answer the question."

"I don't see why it matters, really," he said through an uneasy laugh. "What's important is the danger you currently pose to yourself, Grand Magister, and the rest of Sunfury Spire with this...indoor bonfire. Come on, we'll move it outside. Just put that out, and put the little burned up bits in that chair so we can carry it down—don't worry, I'll do the heavy lifting. Just start pushing the bookshelf."

"Th—what?"

Halduron had gotten the reading chair halfway onto his shoulders before he turned to face him, looking equally confused, but a tad bit more terrified. "Oh, I tho—I just thought—you're not burning all the things that…? Just the desk?" He nodded vigorously as he set the chair back on the ground, nudging it back into the corner wit ha few painful screeches, wood against marble. "Okay, just the desk. We can just do the desk. That's fine. Sure."

"Are there _more_?" Rommath asked, his voice half an octave too high.

"Nope."

" _Brightwing_."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, the picture of innocence—or so he seemed to believe. "W-Well, how would I know?"

Rommath leveled his stare, meeting the ranger-general's grin head-on as he gestured with his free hand, pouring more fire onto the blackened remains of his desk. "Have you ever seen a burn victim, Halduron?"

He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to bolt. "Yes…?"

"Good," said Rommath. "Then you know what to expect."

"How about that Sunreaver, though?" he said hastily. "The nerve of some people, am I right?"

The grand magister lifted a hand to filter his next breath, which frankly sounded closer to a cough. "Damn smoke."

"Heard that tends to happen when you, y'know, light things on fire... _inside_ ," said Halduron from a safe distance. "But between you, me, and the bonfire, I don't really see what the fuss is all about."

"No?"

Brightwing barely bothered to lift a brow in the laziest of frowns. "Everyone's seen Sunreaver's dick," he said. "I'll be damned, though. Never seen one with freckles."

Rommath scowled, tossing the last leg of his desk into the blaze and tracking the sparks as they swirled skyward on a plume of smoke.

"It's a dick, Rom." The words had never sounded less comforting. "You've got one. I've got one. Lor's got one—even if Liadrin's got full custody of his stones." He made a dismissive gesture. "If you live in this city, you're bound to see a few eventually. Just a fact of life."

"That's not the issue," Rommath blurted. "I don't care that I saw his dick. I care that I saw his dick and I can't _stop_ seeing his dick. In my brain."

Halduron stroked at his stubble, as if considering this. "Well, that's an odd place to put it. Can't say I've ever tried that."

"Yes, well, I'd assume it would require a brain," the grand magister snapped.

The ranger-general grinned. "You offering?"

" _No_ ," he said, in a voice like a whimper. "I just want to lie down and dream of nothing. And you've got full authority to smother me with my pillow while I sleep. The red one, please."

"You're being dramatic, Rommath," he told him.

"No, no, because, see, you don't know the worst of it." He shook his head, as if he could shake the thoughts out of his brain like an ear full of water. "The worst part is that I'm still trying to convince myself to be revolted. Or reviled. Or disgusted, at the very least—and you _know_ I'm convincing—"

"—who told you that…?"

"It's just a known fact, Halduron," he said hastily, "but see, I've been half-hard since it happened—"

"Light, if it's been more than four hours, you're going to need to see a priestess," Brightwing interjected.

"—and every time that image pops back into my head, I just get—"

"Let me stop you right there." The grin that stretched his lips looked like it belonged to a lynx. "I think you ought to reconsider that dick in your brain."

Rommath was honestly contemplating stepping into the fire.

"Doesn't have to be your brain," he offered. "I can put it just about any—"

"Please leave."


End file.
